Snow
by writerfan2013
Summary: Sherlock, love and saying nothing. A series of unconnected drabbles. Pure soppiness. Sherlock/John. Now added: Cup of tea: John reflects on tea and Sherlock's potential alternative career as a TV chef. Just added: Fingers. Sherlock and tenderness, or not. A very brief piece written a while back for another story but now left hanging... so included here.
1. Snow

You cannot hear snow falling. You simply wake up in the morning and it is there, a bright cover reflecting the sky, a silent miracle touching every surface of your world.

Even in the harshest storm, as you stumble blinded towards shelter, it is not the snow you hear, although whiteness surrounds you.

His love is like the snow. I opened my eyes one day and there it was, enveloping me. The flat was transformed into layers of memory - him sitting, standing, placing a cup of coffee on the floor beside the sofa where I could reach it.

I went to the window and saw the world in sharp focus, all motion, all energy intensified by the knowledge that he saw it too.

I wanted to cry out, to call him to me so that we could exclaim together over it.

But the snow does not know it is snow. It falls. It is, and then it is gone. My footprints are only faint.

I let it be. But in winter, when the ice creeps and blossoms across these old windows, I like to sit quiet and still beside him, trying to hear the snow falling.


	2. Libertango

I stand in the window and play. Nothing complex... Mostly pieces which have recently been used in television adverts, actually.

This I can do without thinking. If this sounds a little careless, it's not. I am playing for John and when I don't need to concentrate on the technique, I can concentrate on the audience. I play the slow sections more slowly if he's tired, and the sprightly parts with extra verve if he starts smiling.

He has a new favourite. Libertango. I roll my eyes but play it. And because I don't have to think deeply about it, I can hear it, as if I am in a Continental cafe between the wars, and it is playing on a crackly radio above the sound of drinks and laughter. And I like it too.

"That was really nice," he says. "You can just picture the dancers sweeping round the room. Girls in red dresses covered in frills, men in black trousers and waistcoats. Shiny shoes."

"A rose between their teeth," I say.

"Pulling their backs if they get the bending over bit wrong."

We chuckle. I stare out of the window. I could turn back to him, take his hand, draw him from his seat and place his hands on my arms. With strong faces and straight backs we would glide around the room, dodging coffee tables at the last second. With a flourish I dangle him over my arm and his hair almost touches the floor.

I snort.

"What?" he asks mildly.

"Nothing. Just being silly."

Next day I lift my violin and when I turn to the music stand, there is tucked into a solitary, long-stemmed scarlet rose.

"Shall we?" says John.

"Why not?"

Libertango on CD fills the flat, and we dance, and laugh and laugh.


	3. White tablecloth

I lay my left hand on the white linen tablecloth beside my breakfast plate. The weave is sharp and clear in the morning light. Outside the large window to my right is a garden, wet after the night's rain, yellow flag irises rising in forests from lush borders of fiery crocosmia. The sky is black but there is sunshine. A very Skye day.

John sits opposite, leaning on his left elbow, holding his coffee cup against his lip, looking out at the sky and assessing the likelihood that we will get up onto the hills today. It shows in his left eyebrow, his bottom lip, the breath being drawn in inch by inch until he is ready to speak.

His idea, the trip. Walking. A euphemism: indicates rather climbing, scrambling, slipping down scree and hauling up over awkward rocks with rivulets trickling over them..

My idea, the hotel. Explicit comfort, silent staff, heavy furniture, everything brought to you at a gesture.

I arrest John's words with my own gesture - moving my hand across the rough cloth towards where his right hand lies.

His gaze moves from the sky to my face, taking in the hand.

Our fingertips are four inches apart.

I lift my chin. Look into his eyes. His is so steady. Warm and brave.

_Acknowledge me._

His eyes widen slightly. _Really?_

I move my hand an inch towards him.

We promised each other discretion. But discretion now feels like shame. _Yes. Acknowledge me._

He blinks slowly. _Gay detective._

We have had this argument. I frown slightly. _Just a label._

_You will lose credibility. _His mouth, a tiny press of his lips, frustration.

I challenge him with my stare. _I will win it back. _

John's hand twitches - ring finger, an uncontrolled tap against the tablecloth._ I want this but._

_You are afraid._ I smile at him, the smile no one else sees.

_For you._ He blinks again but this time it is to rid himself of unwanted additional lachrymal fluid. Tears.

_Not necessary._ I slide my hand to his and our fingertips meet. There is a tremor in my wrist, I notice.

He draws a breath and lets it go, quite a different one from the breath about the state of the weather: a breath which reaches every part of him and clears his eyes of the pain I have seen there this week as we roam the hills and laugh and share sandwiches and kiss on the tops of mountains and then come back to the hotel and have dinner in the restaurant without touching.

_OK. Yes. _His hand slips over mine.

I swallow as his warm fingers touch my wrist. _I love you._

He grins. _Stop crying. _

I am blinking and smiling. _Shut up._

Our hands lie together on the white tablecloth and the coffee goes cold.


	4. Discord and rhyme

The teapot shatters on the floor at his feet. He does not flinch but continues to stare at me with hard eyes.

The phone rings. The landline.

Neither of us move.

"Appropriate," I say with a short, nasty laugh.

He looks at me flatly. "What."

"The British telephone ring is deliberately designed on a five-four beat, to create an alarming sound that people will pay attention to. Discord."

His lip curls. "That's exactly the kind of crap I am talking about. Pointless distraction. Total avoidance."

"Whereas I doubt you could even recognise an irregular beat." I narrow my eyes at him and give a mirthless smile.

"Distraction." His arms are folded.

"Fact." I smack the kitchen table. The ringing has stopped.

"I am talking about our future and you're showing off your enormous brain, which of course is utterly typical. I don't know what I expected." The legs are steady, the arms forming a barrier across his chest. Chin up.

"Yes, you want a stupid, boring, conventional, stereotypical future in which I have _no interest_." I am pointing my right index finger at him. I stop. Clench that fist at my side instead.

John stares at me. He has never punched me during an argument, or I him - it is not that sort of relationship - but at moments like this it is very close. At this point, when we are at our most dangerous, he walks away or I storm out.

Today it is him.

He grabs his coat without even pretending to give an excuse. At the door he stops and slowly turns. "You're wrong. Wrong twice."

"What," I say. I am not wrong.

He is sneering. "Wrong twice," he repeats. "Firstly. _Do not ever dare_ to presume you know the future I want for us. Do not dare. And second -" He is trembling with fury. He takes a breath and then says with an unpleasant smile, "Secondly. The Stranglers. Golden Brown. Seven-eight time. So piss off."

He turns and clatters down the stairs. Moments later I hear and feel the front door slam.

I spin on my heel and grab my violin and stand there not playing it. Shaking.

After a couple of minutes. I lay it down again and pick up my phone. Google.

Damn.

Of course he is correct. I knew he would be.

I have no idea what our future may hold but I know he does not want any kind of bland lifestyle for us. He knows that we do not fit into any niche. He knows it is my own fear speaking and he knows that it is always his job to fix these arguments, which usually he achieves by apologising even when it is not his fault.

He is also right about the Stranglers, whoever they are or were.

I sigh. Rub my hands over my face and pick up the phone.

_You're right. SH_

_About? -J_

_Both things. SH_

_Which things? -J_

_Our future. SH_

_And? -J_

_The bloody Stranglers. Please come home. SH_

Text silence.

I roll my eyes. This is setting a terrible precedent.

A terrible, brilliant one.

_I'm sorry. Please come home. SH_

I hear the key in the front door and footsteps taking the stairs two at a time.


	5. Cup of tea

I don't really drink tea. I mean, I do, impossible to survive the Army without it, like trying to pass basic training without planting your face in a pit full of mud, or going through medical school without finding nasties under your fingernails. But coffee is my drink of choice.

Black, no sugar.

Thanks.

Who am I kidding? I make the coffee around here. Also the tea. Also the dinner. Also the distinctive noises of the Hoover and the washing machine.

Sherlock can make tea. He can make coffee. He can also cook. Is a brilliant cook, for that matter. If the detective thing doesn't work out, then there is a place for him at Jamie Oliver's side, showing him how one need not be cheeky, chirpy or Cockney in order to rustle up a superb melange of flavours and textures whilst smouldering at the camera.

Sherlock can do all these things and more. Whatever he chooses to do he does to expert level.

But he does not choose any of that. He chooses dead people, specifically, dead people whose deaths are mysterious.

Corpses instead of coffee. His choice.

My choice too, in fact. You don't spend years being barked at over cadavers by senior medics without a true love for your subject.

He and I are perfectly matched in that way.

When he stops to think, he knows I drink coffee. He knows all there is to know about me. Tells me things sometimes that I had forgotten I ever mentioned. Tells me things I've never told anyone, and smiles when I blush.

Don't worry, I can make him blush too. I'm no slouch at this deduction lark actually, no matter what he tries to tell people.

Yes, he knows it should be coffee, all right.

But still, when he does on rare occasions think to bring me a drink, it is always tea.

And still, because it is so unusual and so precious when he brings me the cup - without saucer - and places it by my laptop, waiting for me to approve, thank him, look up and give him a grin - still, when he brings me tea instead of coffee, I just smile at him, and drink it, and he is happy, pats me on the arm and walks off looking pleased with himself.

Of course that will all change when he hacks my laptop and finds this.

Coffee. Black, no sugar.

Thanks.


	6. Cup of coffee

It is the same as doing it for myself. Same action, same input, same outcome (presumably).

The only difference is that I will be doing it for John.

Feel strangely nervous and skittery. Many variables press themselves on my brain. Feels like someone leaning on the flesh behind my browbone. Feels like the myriad tiny fish in the small tank at the pet shop: impressive to see so many shoaling together, but fish need more space, need to swim free. Not to keep coming up against the invisible glass, the edge of their known world. (I could calculate how much space each breed truly requires and tell the shop manager, but this would only get me ejected from the shop. And sometimes it helps, to watch the metaphor made real, swarms of motion both simple and complex, trapped and teeming.)

I know how to do this. Of course. (And if I didn't know I would read and research and learn. Obvious.) There is honestly nothing new in any of these deeds. Nothing in the act is difficult or new.

Only the person for whom the act is performed, is different, in other words, is not me. I have never done this for not-me before.

It feels significant, intimate, overt. It feels as though I am placing myself on display (I am).

I worry that my hands will betray me, these hands which I am usually able to regard, rightly, as mere servants of my mind. Perhaps my hand will shake and John will notice, be distracted. My fingers already feel awkward, which is ridiculous (muscle memory should override all mental input at this stage of my life).

Other people do this all the time. It is commonplace, mundane, unremarkable. How do they do it? I suspect lack of mental capacity to grasp the full ramifications. Most people do not imagine, most of the time. They react. And so they are able to do these things, acting purely from animal instinct, the maintenance of social order within the pack, the fulfilment, by one pack member, of another's physical need. They do not think about it. (How human life continues: ignoring human capability and relying on deep animal urges. If everyone were like me the species would be lost).

I smile at this and realise that several seconds have passed while I remain motionless.

John is looking up at me expectantly. He knows. He knows this is different and new for me. His eyes, usually so unreadable, show affection. He knows.

He knows I am overthinking. And that I read everything on his computer. He knows exactly what I am about to do. (Brilliant John.)

I place the coffee cup at his left hand, where the tea would usually go, and put my own hand on his shoulder for two seconds.

He breaks into a grin.

"Thanks."

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**Author's note:**Thanks to Prinzessin Kiwi for inspiring the idea for this companion piece to Cup of tea, and the brilliant ivyblossom on ao3 whose Sherlock thinking style I have shamelessly copied for this piece (all the brackets!) I am not as careful or clever as she is but I love her Sherlock. Anyway, hope you liked this.


	7. Fingers

John's left hand is in Sherlock's as they sit in the back of the cab. This is less odd than it might have been a week previously. Sherlock has become almost clingy of late. John likes it. Likes it a lot more than he lets on, of course. No point giving Sherlock's massive ego any additional bolstering.

He notices though that Sherlock is not just holding his hand, but rather, has John's fingers crumpled in his palm and is holding, in particular, John's ring finger. Sherlock is running his thumb around and around the pad of John's finger, slowly, allowing it to drag a little, create some friction.

John draws breath in sharply as finger-sensation connects to everything else.

Sherlock smiles, keeps eye contact with John and raises John's hand to his lips, presses John's finger just against his bottom lip, kisses it, causing John to gasp, then lets go again.

"Sherlock," says John. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. Smug smile.

"Blimey. Message definitely received." John is actually having to take deep breaths.

Sherlock's smug grin broadens. "I knew that would work."

John drops his shoulders, says, "Oh God. You. And I thought we were having a tender moment."

Sherlock affects a hurt expression. "I express tenderness through the use of technique," he says.

John narrows his eyes. "Technique! I'll give you technique."

Now Sherlock is grinning in a way that is both flirtatious and predatory. "Yes please."

There is just no winning with him.


End file.
